It was day one of my
annual solitary cycling trip. The plan was to pick up last years
trail atSwindon, carry on across the Cotswolds to Banbury, then turn
South East, my new destination being Neasden.
First though, I wanted
to visit Jaqui near Bath. Jaqui has lived aboard and lovingly
maintained the wooden Josher motor “Aster” for many years. Some
time ago she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She was determined
to stay aboard her beloved boat to the end. As she's got weaker
however, she's started to review that decision. Last winter was
difficult and she doesn't want to spend another winter afloat. I was
going to visit her to discuss the future of “Aster”.
Buying cheap advance
tickets online is a great way to set up your train journeys. The only
snag is that, if you're taking a bicycle, different train companies
have different rules about carrying bikes. It's wise to book your
bike on the train, which is free, but has to be done at a booking
office. I got caught out with this on my last journey as Great
Western had brought in compulsory bike booking on their Inter City
125 sets, how was I supposed to know?
When I tried to book my
bike on my train from Manchester to Bristol I found that all the
bookable slots were taken, but there was one first come first served
slot left. I determined to be there as the train arrived to be the
first comer.
My ticket was from
Guide Bridge but I decided to cycle to Picadilly. Emily works at
Bridge 5 Mill, the environmental resource centre. She had stayed
aboard Hazel recently and left her jumper, so I was going to deliver
it on the way. I loaded my bike handlebars with two bags for life
full of stuff and put my rucksack on my back, then set off down the
Ashton new road. Near the velodrome I diverted on to the towpath to
stop at bridge 5 and deliver the jumper. I followed the road again
until I came to the new basins that almost connect the Ashton canal
with the Rochdale, where I followed the empty Ashton canal basin back
on to the towpath.
This area, always known
as Ancoats, is now being renamed “New Islington” by the
regeneration experts. Presumably Ancoats wasn't upmarket enough.
The basin accessed from
the Ashton Canal is empty of boats, purely ornamental. The one
accessed from the Rochdale is full of boats, but they are being
chucked out with nowhere to go. Despite living afloat now being seen
as a deeply cool lifestyle, anti boater prejudice remains high among
bureacrats.
Soon I was at Picadilly
station, an hour early for my train. I went through the automatic
ticket barrier and sat down at the platform end to enjoy watching the
coming and going of trains. After a while my train arrived and, once
it had disgorged its passengers, I hung my bike in the space provided
and locked it in place, before seeking out my reserved seat in the
next carriage.
Voyager units are not
for the claustrophobic. They are tilting trains, leaning into corners
like a motorbike. While this allows them to go a lot faster it means
that the upper part of the body has to be relatively narrow to fit
into the loading gauge whilst leaning. Added to this you have as many
seats as they could cram in and limited luggage space. This
particular unit was also excessively hot, though it's allegedly air
conditioned.
Despite this, and the
fact that none of my co-passengers could be tempted into a
conversation, I enjoyed the journey, watching the towns and country
whizz by. Stoke, Stafford, Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Cheltenham then
into Bristol with me standing by the door ready with my rucksack and
heavily laden bike.
Besides the rucksack on
my back I had a supermarket 'bag for life, slung from each handlebar.
As I pushed the bike along the platform, both straps on one of these
gave way and the bag dropped to the floor. A helpful passenger picked
it up for me. I tied the straps together and carried on, though it
was clearly not going to last very long with half its fixings gone.
A huge crowd had
gathered on platform 11 to await the 15.20 to Portsmouth, which I had
to take as far as Bath. The sign flashed up that the train was only 2
carriages and was full and standing. A helpful platform manager (or
whatever they call porters nowadays) suggested that anyone for Bath
could take the Inter City 125 in the next platform.
My bike was booked on
the 15.22 Portsmouth. I was once arrested at Bristol Temple Meads for
unauthorised loading of a bike onto an Inter City 125. It cost me
£40. I didn't take up the offer but instead I stood, holding on to
my bike, for the short journey.
Bath is, of course, a
beautiful city.This attracts tourists, so, the city cetre is pretty
much geared fgor tourists. It's not the pace to find a cheap shopping
bag. For the first time in my life I entered a Waitrose store, where I
was able to purchase an organic fairtrade jute bag, which certainly
is strong, if costly.
The next task was to
find the canal. This isn't easy as canals tend to sneak into cities
by the back door rather than proudly announcing their presence.
Eventualy I tracked it down and set off at speed aong a wide and
tarmacked towpath, busy with wakers, runners and cyclists.
The inside of the canal
was dotted with moored boats of every description. Wide beam, narrow
beam, steel, wood, fibreglass etc. Most were in some way or other
personalised by there owners. Some were works of art. There was
clearly a vibrant and creative waterway community here, just the
thing that bureacrats hate. This is a waterway of The Shire, not of
Mordor.
Eventually I spotted
"Aster" on the outside, a little way short of the Dundas aquedct and
the junction with the Somerset Coal Canal. I crossed the swing bridge
to the moorings, which are run by a co-operative. I picked up
wonderful friendly vibes as I rode down the path towards "Aster", with
smiling adults and laughing playing children.
Jaqui invited me
aboard. Inside was a lovely cosy hobbity space with lots of real wood
fittings and a big range to keep the place warm. Over a cup of tea we
chatted about what could be done with Aster.
Jaqui plans to move on
to the bank in the Autumn. The boat will then have to move from her
mooring as the co-op has made an exception to its r4ule that only
co-op members can moor there because of Jaqui's ilness, and they're
not accepting more members. Jaqui showed me pictures of substantial
replanking work being done by the previous owners. She had docked the
boat too, but had only been able to tingle over the suspect bits, and
she'd had to sell the engine to pay for the work. Nevertheless, Aster
is in pretty good nick, but she will need some real planking work
done soon.
The Wooden Canal Boat
Society can't take any more boats on, we're overstretchede with what
we've got.My thoughts were going towards getting mine and Jaqui's
friends together to form a charity to look after the boat, possibly
raising funds by letting her as accommodation via online platforms,
something that's working well to subsidise “Hazel”s charitable
work. In the Bath area this should do well, though she would need a
suitable mooring, with planning permission if she stays in one place,
a higher spec boat safety certificate and suitable licence.
We chatted on about the
difficulties of getting people working together, but it's worth the
effort. I began to notice that Jaqui was looking tired and wondered
if I should leave soon. She pre-empted me, explaining that she'd been
to the hospice that day and she was getting pretty tired. I climbed
out of the boat and said goodbye.
I have over 1000
Facebook friends. I've never met most of them, but they are mostly
people who support the work of the Wooden Canal Boat Society, though,
generally it's only moral support. If rather than likes whenever I
post something they would all join the society, which has a
ridiculously small membership, then the WCBS would have another
£12000 a year to spend on restoring boats.
Jaqui also has a long
friends list. Now, if Jaqui's friends and my friends in the South got
together to form a Save Aster Society then it would be a pretty
powerful group. Money could be raised, work done on the boat and
Aster could be given a long term future, hopefully doing something
useful to society. I don't know Jaqui well, but she strikes me as a
really wonderful woman. She's facing something that we all dread. It
will help her a lot if she knows that the boat she's loved for so
long will have a bright future. Over to you!
I pedalled away through
the lovely wooded moorings and over the swing bridge. I decided to
have a look at the Aqueduct and the Coal Canal. The aqueduct is an
impressive classical structure built in the local Bath stone. The
Somerset Coal Canal, a narrow waterway built to tap the Somerset
coalfield, was mostly converted into a railway in the 1870s. This,
in turn closed down, but shortly after closure was used as the
location for the classic Ealing comedy The Titfield Thunderbolt. A
short length of canal at the junction has been restored as moorings.
Having ticked these two
off my list, I set off back down the towpath towards Bath. I had
noticed some intriguing derelict buildings across the railway line on
the edge of Bath, so I manhadled my bike and luggage over the
footbridge that led to them. I couldn't make out whether they were
originally residential or industrial, but it looks like they're
beenig refurbished as houses anyway.
At Bath railway station
I sked for tickets for an old codger (senior railcard) and bike to
Swindon. Armed with my ticket and cycle reservation I waited at the
designated spot on the platform for the 125.
There was no fuss and
no-one checked my ticket. The guard was a cheerful felow with a west
country accent, a beard and his dark hair tied back in a pony tail.
Dressed differently he could have been a pirate.
By the time we reached
Swindon I was seriously hungry. It was getting late so I didn't want
to go to the trouble of loighting a fire to cook my tea, a takeaway
was in order. I went looking for a chip shop but, finding none, I
thought I'd try a carribean takeaway.
I ordered jerk chicken
with fries and home made coleslaw. That's £7, said the man “It
says £5 in the window, I replied”. “Oh, that's the lunchtime
meal deal” he said. OK, no problem, my mistake I said handing over
a £20 note. “Have you got a pound” he asked. “Yes” I said,
giving him a shiny new coin. He gave me £15 change. A quick
calculation told me that I'd only been charged £6. I handed over my
flask, “Any chance of filling this with hot water”, “i'll see
if they'll do that” he said, taking it into the kitchen.
There were quite a lot
of people sitting around waiting. A steady stream of polystyrene clad
packages emerged from the kitchen, were wrappped in carrir bags and
handed over to waiting customers. I was in no hurry as I was enjoying
the reggae music. The lad wrapping and serving had his jeans hanging
below his arse, which, thankfully, was covered by a sturdy pair of
underpants. I wonder if he realises what that style of dress
signifies.
My charged up flask
returned, so I wouldn't need to light a fire for my morning coffee.
Shortly afterwards my food came through the hatch. The man with the
hanging pants apologised for it taking so long, “it was because of
the fries” he said “we had to send out for them” (?!!!!?).
I cycled off back along
the route I had followed into Swindon a year ago, along the filled in
line of the Wilts & Berks canal. I knew this was crossed by thr
Midland & South western Junction railway route, now a cycleway. I
thought I would follow this to where it crossed the active Great
western main line and sit there watching trains and eating my meal.
Unfortunately the railway bridge is gone and the cycleway diverts
down a rough lane that went under the railway through a concrete
rathole. I found myself in one of those urban fringe area that are
resrved for the less salubrious functions like rubbish tips and
sewage works. This secluded lane is ideal for those people who shun
the official disposal methods and creep away in the night to unload
their rubbish unobserved.
My food was cooling so
I gave up looking for a pleasant spot, instead, opening my meal on a
barren mound surrounded by discarded foam mattress fillings. As I
ate I thought there was something missing. The chips were OK, the
chicken was good, the jerk sauce was very tasty, but there was no
coleslaw! I liked that takeaway shop, but it was very random!
I needed to find a
campsite for the night as dusk was a near prospect. With my takeaway
container added to my burden I carried on up the cycleway, but had no
idea which way to go when I reached a junction. Swindon has an
excellent network of cycleways, if you know where you're going. There
are signposts but many have been vandalised, some have been turned
round (to confuse invaders perhaps) and if you set out along a route
signposted to a likely sounding place you can guarantee that at the
next junction you will be given a completely different menu of
options.
I was aiming for the
Swindin & Cricklade Railway, laid along the Midland & South
Western trackbed and starting in a country park just North of
Swindon. For added interest, it ran parallel to the North Wilts
Canal, which there are ambitious plans to re-open.
I found myself on a
cycleway that looked like it was a railway trackbed, so I followed
it. At one point I had to cross a busy road. Someone leaned out of a
passing car and shouted “hobo” at me. I'd rather be a hobo than a
motorised prick!
Sure enough, the path
led me to a country park and the rather bleak Southern terminus of
the Swindon & Cricklade. The gate was locked, the information
boards blank and no scope for camping, so I headed off into the
country park.
I passed a fishing lake
but plunged on through young woodland following the wandering path. I
kept seeing likely spots but carrying on to see if there was anywhere
better. I passed a bunch of teenagers carrying skateboards, then came
to a road. I went up the road, thinking it would take me back to the
railway line but, after several twists and turns, there was no sign.
It was getting dark so I turned back and returned along the cycleway.
I left the main route and went deep into Purton Wood, a young
Woodland Trust plantation, and hid myself deep in the closely spaced
young poplars.
It was spitting with
rain, so I unfurled my pop up tent and unrolled my sleeping bag
inside. Soon I was deep in the land of Nod.
